


Book Keeper

by nns_kanoe



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bookstores, How Do I Tag, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Other, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3843661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nns_kanoe/pseuds/nns_kanoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takao occasionally sees the celebrated campus enigma disappear into an old, crumbling bookstore. His curiosity gets the better of him, and leads to an unexpected encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Book Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly MidoTaka per se. Slash if you squint. Never let it be said that I do not effing love vintage bookstores; if I met someone like this, I'd probably marry them.

If 'antiquity' could have had a smell, a taste, a single image, Takao thought to himself, it would probably have been the tumbledown bookstore that stood in front of him.

 

It wasn’t just the look of the place either, which would’ve been plenty telling enough. Somehow the very air around it wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

 

The doors were open, but uninviting; as if someone had closed invisible shutters behind them. A modest “open” sign hung on a tarnished brass knob, looking as if it would’ve vehemently flipped itself back over the moment you looked away from it. The exterior painting was meticulous, with not a single stray speck out of place; but the history of paint-jobs hidden underneath seemed intent on making their mark, peeling up wheresoever revealing the colors beneath. Like the stubborn lingering layers of a snake shedding its’ skin, they flickered crisply in the breeze.

 

It was probably a moment of madness or crippling curiosity, Takao didn’t quite know which, when he dared himself to step in. The smell of must and browning paper settled around him as dense as an invisible fog; he couldn’t help feeling as if he'd traveled, by effort of a single step, into an entirely different century.

 

It was well lit, albeit with a shade of yellow that summoned The Godfather from the depths of his memories. The room was crammed full of decrepit shelves, stocked with equally decrepit books; it almost seemed as if even the dimmest lick of sunlight would’ve penetrated the woodwork.

 

The store was silent beyond what seemed natural, prompting Takao to wonder if the din from outside had been as reluctant to enter as he’d been? It felt almost like walking through a forest, where timid fauna lay hidden in fear of the unknown, but watched all the more closely his every move. He ventured deeper, half expecting to see an ancient store owner, suitably dwarfed with age; he was surprised to see instead a tall, emerald haired young man sitting behind the mahogany counter. A stained glass lamp sat at a side in what most would consider a precarious place for delicate decor. The young man, and the immaculate glass lamp, however, didn’t seem to think the danger noteworthy.

 

With what could vaguely be called interest, he noted, the counter seemed to be the only place entirely void of dust.

 

One false move onto a creaky floorboard, and the young man looked up at him, his eyes dark from the shade of what must've been long eyelashes. He couldn’t have been much older than Takao himself, but somehow exuded an air of years long past, perfectly befitting of the store around him. A yellowed volume was set down upon the counter, as he adjusted the glasses that had already been sitting perfectly on his nose.

 

“May I help you?” Came a voice that sounded eager to do anything but.

 

He’d half expected the man to be as silent and delicate as the rest of the establishment, and should’ve found himself less surprised had he been mute. “Ah, just, looking around.” He stuttered at length, not entirely sure if he ought to have said anything at all. The man turned away once again, Takao only then realizing his shoulders had been tensed under that inquisitive gaze.

 

Once the tension from that moment of speech and sound had waned, the bookstore fell back into the silence that seemed only appropriate for it. In the still calm, Takao could almost hear the whispers of brilliant minds who had committed pen to paper caressing his ears; intrigued, the boy selected a title from one of the bowing shelves. Not without suspecting the book would disintegrate in his hands, he cracked it open, an inward voice questioning when these pages had last tasted oxygen.

 

The parquet creaked underfoot no matter how he’d chosen to stand. After shifting several steps from where he’d been in search of silent footing, he concluded his act of courtesy was probably more of a nuisance than if he’d chosen to stand still.

 

And so, stand still Takao does.

 

Something in the air seemed to appreciate that; he suspected it was coming from the counter.

 

It would probably have been an interesting book to someone who’d acquired a discerning eye for fine literature; Takao was not such a person. With the same caution he’d used to open it, the book was closed, and slotted back onto the shelf exactly where it had been.

 

Something told him that not doing so would not sit well with the young man at the counter. At that point, given his down-turned eyes, intense concentration and stiff posture, Takao wasn’t entirely sure how keen he was on incurring his wrath. The standoffish air that seemed to equate to age obliged Takao to his best behavior, in the same way a crumbling grandfather might have.

 

"Say, can I ask you something... " He probably regretted those words even before they’d reached the young man at the counter.

 

“... Yes?” Not void of visible ire, the man set his book down once more. Much like its’ effect on sound, the stillness around them seemed to amplify every move, every gesture, every subtle look, the slightest tone of voice. Takao could’ve sworn he heard a tiny huff as the book was lowered.

 

Likewise, Takao would’ve found himself perplexed if the young man didn’t physically feel his slight panic when scrambling for a question. How old is this place, any recommendations, what is someone like you doing here, what kind of books do you carry, what authors do you like, are you a literature student. Of the million things he could’ve asked, his mind seemed all too focused on the very reason he’d even stepped in here to begin with.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

Takao hadn’t thought the young man capable of the expression he made at that moment. Amidst the evident confusion, were interwoven threads of embarrassment, slight disbelief, and a tiny something else Takao couldn’t quite put his finger on.

 

But, it mirrored perfectly what he felt himself. Call it eagerness, or an urge, he supposed, to find out more about the single other soul trapped in this forgotten dimension.

 

The young man turned away, lifting his book again to hide his face; though, the shaking in his fingers was equally telling. “It’s Midorima,” he replied at length. “Midorima Shintarou.”

 

Allowing the store to once again fall under a blanket of still calm, Takao suspected Midorima could hear him silently relishing the syllables on his tongue. It took him awhile to remember he’d forgotten his manners. “Ah, sorry,” he started, only then realizing with an inward wince how ill-fitted his default volume was to the store around them. “Uhm, mine’s Takao, T-”

 

“Takao Kazunari.” Midorima replied, as a matter of factly, though the shaking hand reaching up to adjust his glasses whispered worlds between lines. “I occasionally see you on campus,” he explained, as if only then realizing how odd his knowledge had seemed. “Your friends are rather the… Enthusiastic sort, it would seem.”

 

“Yeah, they kind of wear my name out don’t they.” Takao laughed, the reverberations of his innocent happiness serving to unwind the other man ever so slightly as well. Midorima had seen him on campus, he knew that much. After all, the young man had been the sole reason why Takao had even ventured into this forbidding cave of a bookstore. He himself felt desperately out of place; yet, it seemed only too perfect a habitat for the fabled campus enigma.

 

With one studying the written thoughts of others, and one caught in thoughts of his own, the vicinity fell into the silence so befitting it once more.

 

Browsing through titles, it didn’t take Takao long to realize most of the volumes on the shelves were either foreign works, or translations of such. Not by virtue of knowledge, but more a lack thereof, and perhaps what could roughly be called a hunch. Most of Takao’s experience with tangible book pages up to that point had been with manga or sports magazines; the aristocratic world of haute literature had always seemed distant and daunting.

 

But seeing how comfortably immersed Midorima was in his book and surroundings, Takao began to relax; call it a learned reassurance perhaps. The vintage ambience turned into something comfortable, cosy even, as they listened to the sounds of flipped pages, creaking wood, shifting weight, careful breathing, light-bulb flickers.

 

Midorima placed his book down on the counter, laying a branded leather bookmark between the pages. Takao turned away from admiring the cover on a leather-bound tome to the flattering sight of Midorima’s attention on him.

 

“May I help you?” He said once more, emerald eyes reflecting softly the kaleidoscopic glow from his stained glass lamp. Though, this time, Takao noted, it seemed deeply nuanced compared to the first time he’d heard those words. He wondered, had the store not been quite so sombre around the sole two living beings in these four walls, would he even have noticed that change? Or was it conversely because he’d settled into the airs around him, that Midorima’s voice seemed different.

 

With a smile, he ran his fingers slowly over the embossed leather carvings, appreciating every notch and bevel. “Well,” he chuckled, hands pausing in the empty slot that his book had once occupied. “I don’t suppose you have any recommendations for beginners?”

 

At this Midorima looked away from him, pensive. “For starters,” he near whispered, the corners of his lips lifting into a subtle smile as he turned back to Takao. “You may wish to step away from the philosophy aisle.”

 

The first wave of emotions that hit him, Takao realized, had been embarrassment. Soon after though, he turned to look at those worn-down book spines and age-rounded shelf edges, and felt something dearly akin to enchantment.

 

“Pity though,” he spoke, not entirely sure himself where he was going with this. “They’re beautiful.”

 

Pretending not to see the resulting smile in Midorima’s eyes, he returned his book to its rightful place and shifted to a different aisle, somehow beginning to appreciate the symphony of aged parquet.

 

“So… If you don’t mind me asking,” Takao started, eyes scanning through what appeared to be the fiction section. “What’re you doing here?”

 

“My grandfather owns the store, I tend to it sometimes.”

 

Takao paused for a moment. Somehow it seemed as if Midorima’s replies were a tad rushed. Not by much, but just enough to be picked up by someone had they been paying attention. He recalled the expression Midorima had made when he first asked his name; that vague sense of eager curiosity that reflected his own.

 

“That’s pretty admirable of you.” He chuckled, scanning the section once more.

 

He finally began seeing familiar titles; though, only familiar in name. The sort of titles that granted the facade of an academic simply from being seen with them in the trains, or in a cafe with an espresso.

 

Shrouded in his thoughts, Takao found himself at a moment’s loss when Midorima spoke up again.

 

“I could ask you the same, though.” He murmured, his book still closed and laid peacefully at a side. “You’re clearly not the reading sort; what brings you here?”

 

Takao let out a wince. “Wow, you don’t pull your punches do you.” He laughed, glancing down at his sneakers and feeling a slight dissonance; a reminder, perhaps, that the year was 2015. “I was curious.” He answered simply, as if the airs of the store had stripped him of his casual pretenses. “About you.”

 

Had it been anywhere else but the lethargic lull of the store, Takao figured he might not have noticed the pause before Midorima’s response; so different from when he’d been answering Takao’s previous questions, when the man had seemed almost eager.

 

“I see.” Came the response, a string of tension amplified by the ambience. In the amber light, Takao couldn’t make up his mind on whether or not the darker shade dusting Midorima’s cheeks was by fault of his imagination.

 

There was a prolonged moment, with neither of them really knowing whether to speak; Midorima caught in wondering if his reply had been sufficient, and Takao similarly in pondering his next utterance.

 

It was a chuckle from Midorima that eventually eased the weight from both their minds; Takao watched him closely as he stood from the counter and headed into the back room, silently panicking if he’d said too much.

 

Midorima didn’t keep him waiting for long. “A good book for beginners, would probably be Watership Down, by Richard Adams.” He said when he emerged once more, dusting off a book before beckoning Takao come closer. Stiffly, Takao took it, only then noticing Midorima’s gesture towards a nearby stool.

 

When he turned back to the taller man, he was already picking up an ornate tin and returning to the back room. “Do you take Earl Grey tea?”

 

With a smile, Takao took his seat after pulling it closer to the counter, and cracked open the book. “I’d love to start.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's a good book, don't hurt me. There probably won't be a continuation.


End file.
